


B-Team

by SpaceHotel



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Adrien/Chat Noir is not Felix/Chat Blanc, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Male!Ladybug, Male!Marinette - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2019-10-10 15:04:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17428229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceHotel/pseuds/SpaceHotel
Summary: When Ladybug and Chat Noir are nowhere to be found, who do the citizens of Paris call upon in their hour of need?Chat Blanc and his unwilling tech support. B-Teamdespite being woefully underqualifiedis at your service!





	1. Chapter 1

You stood in a void of darkness, a little slice of paradise detached from the rest of the world. All was still and quiet, save for the gentle patter of rain against the terracotta rooftops outside and the raspy sound of your own breath. There, within the darkness, the world was as it should be. It was safe and rational. It was untouched by the reality that existed beyond the walls of your apartment, a place where crazy vindictive villains couldn’t reach you.

_God, did you hope they couldn’t reach you._

For a moment you simply stood there, eyes open yet sight unseeing. And in that moment, everything felt _right. Everything was fine. ___

__

But for some reason you still couldn’t breathe. There was still dread and trepidation, and those feelings just wouldn’t go away.

__

Like a child afraid of the ghoulish monsters beneath their beds, that fear would never truly leave on its own. Even children knew that monsters liked to lurk about in shadows, just out of reach of their nightlights. And they knew most importantly of all that, without the light, the mere thought of safety was an illusion.

__

Suddenly paradise felt a lot less welcoming.

__

With the flick of a switch, the bathroom was bathed in a bright fluorescent glow. The sight of white tiles and the rubber duckie shower curtain was familiar. Your own appearance, you assumed, would not be. It was with pointed determination that you avoided looking at your own reflection, even as you turned to face the sink and the mirror positioned just above the leaky faucet.

__

The cold flood of water against your skin was the first thing that felt real. It pooled in your hands, bringing with it the unpleasant sensation of pins and needles against overheated skin. And slowly, as you splashed your face again and again, the dreamlike haze you had fallen into began to dissipate. In its place was a harsh sting right beneath your left eye, and the smear of watered-down blood on your fingertips.

__

“Fucking hell,” you cursed, and hissed, and jumped in fright all at once. __Because__   _ _wow,__ how had you forgotten about the giant cut on your cheek? And your voice, it sounded so alien that you couldn’t believe it was you who had spoken, and --

__

All at once you were coherent, and in the time it took you to realize that what just happened wasn’t an awful dream, a volley of other realizations fell into place:

__

  1. Superheroes and villains existed, tangibly, outside the harmlessly fictitious world of comic books and movies.
  2. Your friend, by some massive leap in logic, was somehow one of those aforementioned crime-fighting vigilantes.
  3. You had seen your friend fighting off an angry bar patron turned discount Saturday morning cartoon antagonist.
  4. For some utterly baffling reason, you were the angry bar patron’s target.
  5. And as a result _you had nearly died, and your hand was now covered in your own blood._



__

In conclusion, the day had been a total shit show and everything actually sucked. Nothing was alright, and _you weren’t okay._

The sound of running water seemed to echo off the walls so loud that you could barely make out the suddenly inquiring voice from the other side of the door. It all bled together into mush in your ears while your thoughts fought to drown everything out until all that was left was the shattering symphony of your own meltdown.

__

“You alright in there?” the voice asked, and that’s right, you weren’t alone. Your friend was still patiently waiting just outside, unfazed by the day's prior events in a way that made you feel as though you were being totally irrational.

But then you stopped long enough to watch a trail of blood languidly drip down the length of your fingertips, and immediately decided that your irrationality was justified.

__

“No,” you called out despite the stuttering and uncoordinated tango of your lungs. “Feeling a little barfy, honestly.”

__

You thought he would scoff in disgust, maybe crack an ill-timed joke in his usual brand of dry and monotonous humor. He did neither of those things, and that worried you. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “I’m coming in.”

__

Your stomach hit rock bottom faster than you thought possible. In fact, it went further than rock bottom, careening down a seemingly never-ending pit with no intention of stopping. Had you locked the bathroom door? Did you look as frightened as you felt? Would he think less of you? Would it even matter if he did? You weren’t ready to find out. You weren’t ready at all.

__

“Please don’t. J-just give me a second.”

__

But he didn’t wait, because you knew you would never be ready, and you had a feeling he knew that as well. At first there was no indication of movement, his hesitation evident in the way the door slowly creaked forward on rusty hinges. Then, all too suddenly, he was there behind you. You didn’t dare peak a glance at his reflection, but what you couldn’t see you could hear in the soft coaxing of his voice.

__

“Look at me.”

__

You dipped your head and closed your eyes instead, and in response you felt his chest heave up and down in rhythm with his sigh. One of his hands moved to rest upon your shoulder. The other snatched your fingers within his grasp before he led them beneath the running faucet. The water had since warmed up and it fell in rosy rivulets down the curvature of your skin into the sink below, washing the red away.

__

“See? It’s all gone, you’re fine. Look up, love.”

__

When you didn’t move, he made no effort to force you. When you didn’t speak, he gave your shoulder a light squeeze. And it was that uncharacteristic gentleness that gave you the courage to confront what you had been avoiding.

__

You locked sights with your own reflection. A stranger stared back at you, disheveled and sallow, eyes dull and wide, with a nasty looking gash at the apex of your cheekbone. It looked unnatural, a cheap imitation of what should have been. It wasn’t just you either, because as your gaze traveled upwards the man standing behind you looked equally out of place.

__

Decked out in white leather, hair askew, your friend looked nothing at all like the stoic man you thought you knew. Something about that knowledge was terrifying, but there was comfort in the warmth he provided, and his eyes behind the white mask were as blue as they always had been.

__

That’s where your sight remained, staring directly at the only thing that seemed the same in a world that felt so different.

__

“Atta’ girl,” he praised, and with an impeccably clawed hand ruffled your already messy hair.

__

It was an action so nonchalant, so at odds with how absolutely wrong everything currently was, that you said the only logical thing you could think of. “Felix, this is fucking crazy.”

__

His reflection grinned sympathetically. “Isn’t it?”

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, important things to note about this story below!
> 
> In case anyone is unaware of who Felix is, Felix Agreste is the character who was originally created to be Chat Noir instead of Adrien. He’s essentially viewed as an entirely separate character from Adrien by the creator of the Miraculous Ladybug series, having notable differences in personality and demeanor. Both Felix and Adrien will have active roles in this story, one as Chat Blanc and the other as Chat Noir.
> 
> With that being said, this story is pretty heavily AU. It won’t be following the episodes beat by beat, and all characters are aged up to be approximately 21-24 years old.
> 
> Also possibly debating having kwami’s play a more active role in the plot by giving them humanoid appearances. If this is something that you’re interested in, do let me know! I have a pretty good idea of where I’d like this story to go, but this is the one detail where I haven’t been able to make a concrete decision.
> 
> Feedback and critique are always welcomed! Don’t be afraid to point out any mistakes I may have missed (I do extensive proofreading, but I’m only human. I’ll make mistakes no matter how thorough I try to be!) and please feel free to ask any questions you may have regarding this story!
> 
> Thank you for reading, and have a wonderful day!


	2. Chapter 2

Want to get to know the inner complexities of the human psyche? Become a psychiatrist. Or the less prestigious, minimum-wage equivalent: a bartender.

Honestly, you weren’t particularly fond of exploring either profession. Yet somehow here you were, the purveyor of all things decidedly hard and on the rocks.

You never truly got used to it, bartending, and really how could you? Working the night shift at Gershwins certainly had its perks, but socializing with the after-hours crowd wasn't always one of them. At some point conversation had devolved into a horrifying chore, a dizzying sea of do’s and dont’s. You never knew quite what to say when faced with the slurred ramblings of rambunctious college students, or the depressing retelling of some random patron’s sob story. Or worse still, the awkward pick-up lines ripped straight from the pages of _‘How to Hit on Disinterested Women: 101’._

Well, honestly, you usually said very little, but that was also why you felt that what little you did say needed to be impactful in some way. Maybe you were relying too heavily on old sitcoms and buddy cop films, but it was hard to shake the image in your mind of how bartenders were _"supposed"_ to act -- you know, the inviting, impartial, impeccably suave cutout board. The wise side-character that fades into obscurity shortly after offering the protagonist some insightful solution to their problem. 

You didn't want to come off that way because to you it seemed disingenuous. But at the same time, being authentic also makes you vulnerable, and vulnerability wasn't always something you wanted to put on display for drunk sketchy strangers at two in the morning.

So you settled for the middle ground, in which you balanced your need for privacy and your aversion to awkward conversations with hints of genuine friendliness.

Who knew that the hands-off, overtly detached approach would be the very thing that scored you a handful of regulars who would greet you with the same openness they would a childhood friend?

That was how you met Felix, the clean-cut, well-dressed, prim and proper man who favored stiff drinks and even stiffer frowns. He had always looked out of place, sipping from a glass in the seedy back-alley bar you worked at. And when you had one night worked up the courage to tell him as much, he had given you one of his rare little grins and couldn’t help but agree.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Over time, you’d grown used to his uptight demeanor and his cold-stone expression, the amicable silence, and fleeting smiles. He was a calm change of pace from the people you often dealt with, content with simply existing in an isolated bubble not quite unlike your own. You never felt obligated to interact with him just because doing so was part of your job. There was no pressure, no expectation (besides the offering of vodka, of course). He seemed resolved to keep his nose out of other people’s business as long as they offered him the same courtesy.

And yeah, cool, that was something you could work with because other people often had weird business that you also wanted nothing to do with. That was something you could both agree on.

Which is exactly why you didn’t expect to find Felix storming through the front door, dripping the aftermath of _**his**_ weird business all over the crisp white sleeves of his button-down shirt. In the time it took you to blink he had crossed the gap between the entrance and bar where you stood. And in the time it took you to realize that he was bleeding, he had swiped a fistful of napkins from the counter without so much as a hello.

The glass in your hands slipped from your suddenly clammy fingers, yet you hardly heard the sound as it clattered against the table. Slack-jawed and wide-eyed, you watched him delicately dab at the bloody corner of his mouth, the contours of which were set into the fiercest frown you’d ever seen on his face. 

_Well, fuck._ What in the world happened? 

Felix must have read your mind because in that moment he looked up, the spitting image of a brewing storm hovering along the horizon. Your silently inquiring gaze met his, and that was all it took for him to purse his lips and offer you a dismissive shake of his head.

“Don’t ask.”

But hell, of course you were going to. “What do you mean, ‘don’t ask’? Have you looked at your face--?”

“I’m fine,” he quickly muttered, moving the napkin beneath his bruising nose.

An honest to God bruise large and dark enough to eclipse the sun. And what absolutely killed you was the total air of nonchalance he had as he took a seat atop the nearest barstool. Like this was somehow normal, like your worry wasn’t justified. Like he wanted you to stop prying, because up until now your entire relationship with Felix was built upon the express acknowledgement of nondisclosure.

You served him drinks, he cracked a few dry and sarcastic jokes, and you both pretended that the solutions to all of your stress and worries could be found at the bottom of an empty shotglass. He never told you his problems before, you never asked, and something told you that this situation would be no different.

That realization hit you slowly, and then all at once, and it packed one hell of a punch. The thought of it sat heavy in the pit of your stomach, and you struggled to swallow down the bitter taste it left in your mouth.

What exactly were you to him? A friend? An acquaintance? The weird bartender he tolerated out of social obligation? And when did you start caring?

Your own lips pursed to match his frown.

With a deep breath, then a heavy sigh, you picked up a napkin of your own and filled it with a generous amount of ice cubes from the freezer beneath the countertop. You slid the makeshift icepack to Felix, who simply stared at it like he had half a mind to slid it back in a petulant game of no-take-backsies. Which would have been funny, really, if you weren't so floored by what you were seeing.

You could barely make out the crisp blue of his eyes behind a disheveled veil of blond hair, where underneath hid a nasty little cut along his forehead. It was shallow, and the blood had already crusted over the wound. His posture was as rigid as always, and his gaze held steady as he tried to hide the pain behind what he must have thought was an intimidating glare.

And it was. It was definitely intimidating.

But you’ve dealt with Felix long enough to know that he was mostly all talk and no bite. 

"You're fine?" you began, feeling beyond incredulous. "You want to try selling me that line of BS again, maybe with less blood? Because it looks like someone's fist took your face out to dinner and a movie."

He stared back at you with an expression that looked about as incredulous as you felt. "I'm terrified to know what you think happens on a first date."

For a split second the rigid lines of his face melted into something softer, less feral. You wanted to crack a smile because, even in his worst mood, it was nice to know he still had his weird sense of humor. But then you realized he was trying to deflect, trying to steer the conversation away from himself and away from your concern. So you went to steer the ship back on course.

Slowly, you waved your index finger back and forth in the air. Instinctively, his eyes honed in on your finger as it moved past his face. It didn't take him long to realize what you were doing, and he clicked his tongue disapprovingly as he turned away to look dead ahead at the shelf of alcohol behind you. His hand dropped from his face until it fell against the table, leaving behind a faint smear of red beneath his nose. The stained napkin remained clenched tightly in his hand, as if keeping it out of sight would fool you into thinking that nothing was out of the ordinary. And though he stubbornly avoided your scrutinizing stare, you made sure he couldn't pretend to be oblivious to the three fingers you held up directly in his field of view. 

“Alright, I'll believe you if you can tell me how many fingers you see.”

For a moment Felix went cross-eyed, looking equal parts annoyed and entertained as he pushed your hand away. “...I’d tell you if you would kindly back up. How do you expect me to see anything with your hand practically on my face?”

“Do you have a headache?”

“I didn’t have one until now.”

“Shit, that can’t be good. I’ll go get you some--” You cut yourself off and took an accusatory look at his expression.

Oh.

He quirked an eyebrow, as if he’d been expecting you to catch on sooner.

**_OH._ **

You crossed your arms and huffed with all the elegance of a five year old. “Ha, very funny. If you’re well enough to be a total ass, then I guess you don’t have a concussion after all. Probably.”

“Thank you, doctor,” was his monotone response, emphasized further by a mocking pat to the icepack that still sat in the middle of the counter. “Now, if you’re done, I’ll take a shot of vodka, no ice. Swarvoski, preferably”

He was joking, but the laugh you let out was dry and devoid of humor. “Swarvoski, huh? You know that stuff costs like €1700, right?”

“I’ve heard it’s rather good.”

 _“I’ve heard it’s rather good,”_ you mocked back, imitating the deep tenor of his voice as best you could. It earned you a wolfish grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was guarded, politely detached in a way you were intimately familiar with because you’d given people that exact expression a million times before. And even though you knew what it meant, you had always figured you could live with the knowledge that you were both too stubborn to be anything more than politely detached if it meant you could see something other than a frown on his face. “Well, let me tell you that I’ve got something that’ll put that overpriced vodka to shame.”

Intrigued, he leaned forward as you grabbed the clean glass that had earlier slipped from your hands. “Is that so?”

“Yep. You know we don’t carry something as expensive as Swarvoski here, but the cheap stuff works just as well.”

He hummed in agreement because hell, you both knew Gershiwn’s wasn’t Les Caves du Louvre, or anything remotely of the sort. The place couldn’t afford top shelf alcohol, no matter how much the faux chandelier overhead or knockoff replicas of expensive paintings tried to suggest otherwise.

Glass in hand, you turned around and rushed through the motions of pouring Felix a drink. But when you went to turn around, to face him again, you were suddenly struck with a sense of dread so potent, so overwhelmingly uncalled for, that you remained rooted to the spot. Uncertainty left you tongue-tied, so instead you focused on the hushed chatter of a couple off to your right, the weirdly catchy blend of jazz and bossa nova that played from the overhead speakers -- anything, really, to help you pretend you didn’t hear the way Felix wheezed every time he took a breath. Anything to keep you from agonizing over the fact that you desperately wanted to ask him why he was wheezing to begin with. 

Because it was in that moment that you realized that you were tired of being stubborn, and a part of you hoped that he was tired of being stubborn too.

Just once, you wanted to let your guard down. You wanted to show concern for his well-being, press for answers, but at the same time you knew it would only breech the very blurry line that had been drawn in the sand. To cross that line meant changing the dynamic of your relationship with Felix entirely.

He would become something other than just another customer _~~even though a part of you already acknowledged that he was.~~_

You would become something other than just the girl who served him beer _~~despite the fact that every fleeting smile and gentle gaze sent your way was definitive proof that you had always been so much more.~~_

But it wasn't a path you could walk down alone, so you buried your haywire thoughts beneath a hearty helping of false bravado. You reminded yourself of what a _"cool"_ bartender in all those daytime sitcoms would do in this situation.

You turned around as if the weight of the world wasn't suddenly on your shoulders, and with a flick of the wrist you slid the shotglass towards Felix's open hand. "This one's on the house."

Faster than you thought possible, you watched as he knocked back his shot in one go. Then you watched as his expression soured, and now it was your turn to fail at hiding a grimace.

Was that disappointment you detected on his face, or exasperation? Probably both. He looked laughably petulant.

“...When you said cheap stuff,” he began, his voice slow and curt, “I wasn’t aware that meant getting complimentary tap water.”

You dismissively waved your hand. “Felix, you really need to patch yourself up.”

“You didn’t even add ice. Lukewarm tap water tastes awful--”

“And I know you’re too pigheaded to listen if I told you to go see a doctor.”

“--Are we even having the same conversation right now…?”

“So I’m getting you some aspirin and a couple of bandages so we can get you fixed up, and you’re going to thank me later for it.”

His gaze hardened, a silent challenge. “That’s awfully presumptuous of you. And should I refuse?”

“I’ll give your face a symmetrical makeover. The right side could use a little more black and blue.” You heard his derisive snort, saw his exaggerated eyeroll, and knew that he found your threat to be more amusing than intimidating. But he didn’t make a move to get up and storm out, so you took that as a good sign.”I’ll be right back, alright?”

There was a pause in your step as you turned to leave, as you stood and wondered if he was really okay with this. Wondered if you were being too bossy and overbearing. Wondered if maybe you should have just given Felix what he wanted and let him drink a shot, or two, or three. Maybe all he wanted was to drink his pain away, to bury it beneath a layer of buzzed and delirious denial.

Unconsciously, you looked towards the stoic blond in search of an answer. And in turn, like he’d known all along what was bothering you, he sent you a genuine smile. It was a beautiful rarity that helped ease the worry nestling in the pit of your stomach, changing that worry into something else entirely. 

You left before all the sappiness could rot your teeth.

Down a short hallway at the back of the bar was the break room, a cornucopia of American memorabilia from decades past. It was a stark contrast to the pseudo sleek look the rest of the establishment tried so hard to achieve, an interesting aesthetic courtesy of the man who owned the bar. From top to bottom, the whole room was a shrine dedicated to his personal collection of western knickknacks and authentic photo stills of old black and white monster movies. Fun and whimsical, but certainly not practical. Or clean.

You, or your other coworkers for that matter, could hardly navigate the mess. And the one man who could was currently crouched at the far end of the room, bemoaning the complexity of modern technology.

Between his angry muttering of, ‘confounded VCR’ and ‘I’m getting too old for this’, you found the perfect moment to clear your throat and grab his attention. 

“Hey, Boss,” you called out, catching a glimpse of salt and pepper hair hidden behind a television set. “Where do you keep the first aid?”

He offered no response, save for a bony finger that pointed towards a cluttered shelf lined with picture frames and snowglobes. A small white box sat one row beneath a poster of Frankenstein’s monster.

You swiped it from the shelf and blew away a thin layer of dust that had settled over top of it. “Thanks, Boss.”

“Yeah, sure.” There was a pause, nothing but the sound of him pressing buttons on an old VCR and the static fuzz of the television. Then suddenly with a groan and a loud pop he stood to his full height, just tall enough to see you over the bulky analog tv. You offered a placating wave as he looked at your face with narrowed eyes, because you knew exactly what he was thinking. “You not hurt, are ya?”

“I’m peachy keen, Boss. This is for a customer.”

“Bar fight?”

You couldn’t hold back an innocently playful smile as you placed the first aid kit beneath your arm. “Nope. Not here, at least. Maybe he likes to crack chairs over people’s heads at some other bar.”

Maybe you shouldn’t be poking fun at the situation, but you didn’t exactly like the accusing look being thrown your way, as if he knew right away which patron you were currently fussing over. And, let’s be honest here, he probably did. Which is exactly why he didn’t miss the opportunity to shake his head at you in that endearing yet annoyingly old curmudgeon way only a stern grandfather could pull off.

Because he had only told you a thousand times before: _Separate work from personal affairs._

That’s what he always said and Boss knew best, or at least that’s what he’d tell anyone who cared to listen. He’d worked this gig long enough to go from young bartender to crotchety proprietor in under fifteen years, and in that time he had amassed enough horror story ammunition to last well into the next decade. When a guy like him tells you to keep your nose out of other people’s business (well, as out of it as they’re oft-times drunken ramblings will allow), you nod your head yes and do as you’re told.

Expect for when you do exactly the opposite, much to his exasperation.

Unimpressed, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “I should hope he does. Like they say, it’s never good to eat where you shit.”

“No one says that,” you deadpanned. “I swear, where do you get these phrases from? Those weird fortune cookies from Top Wok?” Boss had the look of a man who’d been caught stealing redhanded. You snorted out a disbelieving laugh. “Oh my God, are you really--? I swear I was joking!”

“Tell the missus I’ve been ignoring her diet, and I’ll make sure you don’t leave this place until I can watch all nine seasons of Night Court on this busted VCR.”

The threat was halfhearted, but you didn’t want to push your luck either way. “Alright, alright. Your secret is safe with me. I’m heading back.”

He watched you laugh yourself halfway out the door before he said, “If anyone out there starts getting fresh, you come straight to me, you hear?”

With a warm ghost of a smile and a two-fingered salute, you hightailed it back to the front of the store.

You were pleasantly surprised to find that Felix was still seated by the bar, upright, fully awake, and with seemingly all his mental faculties in order. Maybe you could write off concussion from his list of possible ailments after all.

He was eyeing a suspiciously dark stain on the collar of his white shirt, attempting to smear it away with his thumb to no avail. You tried to imagine this man, expensive button-down vest and all, caught up in the middle of a rowdy bar fight at some other dumpster dive establishment.

And what a ridiculous image that turned out to be.

His gaze suddenly met yours, watching as you attempted to stifle a laugh behind the palm of your hand. Baffled, and not entirely amused, he asked, “Something funny?”

“Do you prefer a chair or the serrated edge of a broken beer bottle as your weapon of choice?”

It took him a second to catch your drift, but when he did he gave a long and suffering sigh.

“What kind of uncivilized brute do you take me for?”

You emptied out the first-aid kit, placing what you thought could be helpful beside his empty glass: 2 off-brand painkillers, a butterfly bandage, and a zip-lock bag you were currently stuffing with your swiftly melting napkin icepack.

“I don't know, you tell me. What am I supposed to think when you come in here looking like you were on the loosing end of a fight? How does your head feel, by the way? And don’t give me some smartass response to try and change the subject."

Felix turned his face away. “It hurts.”

“Are you dizzy? Nauseous?”

“No.”

“Got a headache?”

“You didn’t like my answer the last time you asked.”

“That’s because your answer sucked.” You grabbed his empty glass and filled it with more water. "...Felix, you know I'm just worried, right?"

He gave a clipped nod. The rigid lines of his face were smooth, expressionless. "Suffocatingly so."

"You'd tell me if you were in trouble, right? If you needed help?"

Slowly, he turned to look you in the eyes, his ever present frown softened by the gentleness held in his gaze. "No."

And just like that, all notions of sentimentality flew right out the window.

"Wow, okay. Glad I asked," you grumbled out. "Good talk, Felix."

He shrugged, blatantly unapologetic. "It's hardly any of your business."

You sucked in a breath and bit back the scathing remark on the tip of your tongue because, yeah, he was right. And you hated admitting it.

You slouched against the countertop, suddenly feeling as if you were the one who could use a stiff drink. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you drummed your fingers against the bar.

"Alright, fine. I won't pry. But at least humor me and ice that nasty bump on your stupid face." His lips quirked upwards, a minuscule blink and you'll miss it kind of smile that took the wind right out of your sails. Irritated exasperation made way for tired concern. "Just… take care of yourself, yeah? Trust me, they won't be serving you alcohol, Swarvoski or otherwise, when you're slung up at the nearest hospital."

"Uh huh," he responded, seemingly uninterested, but you let out a sigh of relief as he reached for his glass of water.

Bolstered by his reaction, you carried on. "And think of my livelihood, Felix. Who will tip me if you're not here?"

He reached for the aspirin next, humor in his tone. "Ah, the truth comes out."

“College tuition won’t pay for itself.”

“It’s a wonder you can pay for anything at all when you don’t serve your customers what they actually want to drink.”

You shot him the nastiest glare you could manage, which was hard to pull off when you could barely keep the smile off your face. “Shut up and finish your water.”

But when he laughed, you couldn’t help but begrudgingly admit that maybe his constant teasing was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, look who's finally crawled her way back into the writing scene? This girl.
> 
> I know this chapter took forever, and I know that it's mostly exposition and character establishment. But hopefully it wasn't terrible. The plot, as well as the introduction of other characters from the show, will commence starting next chapter. Pinky promise.
> 
> Until then, thank you to all of the lovely people who have read, liked, and commented on this story. I hope that you're having a wonderful day!


End file.
